A Thorn For Every Heart
by Serendipity1
Summary: A collection of short vignettes, exploring the inner workings of each character. Next up: Maroon:Unsatisfied
1. Lavender: Broken Prince

He could feel her heartbeat, butterfly light and fluttery against him. She was warm, her skin flushed with a pale red hue that suffused the surface of it, tiny droplets of sweat clinging to the crevices between her fingers, inside the lines of her palms. Her heart pitter-pattered like a bird's, rapid and indignant, forceful.   
  
Her eyes were wide, so wide he could see the pupils in the very center, tiny pinpricks of black amid twin orbs of Luna moth green.  
  
His own hands were cold, his hands wrapped inside hers, her spider hands, thin and muscular and lithe. There was warmth there, too, and warmth in the faint trickle of blood from the wounds that slashed jaggedly across on her narrow, pale shoulders, etched across arm and calf and torso. It looked almost beautiful, the blood and the powder gold of the skin, the hair that spilled lightly as silk, lightly as spider webs over her shoulders and collarbones.   
  
Delicate, delicate she was, but sinewy as a cat, stretched bonelessly against his chest. He felt the wiry muscles wrapped around the bones in her arms, felt the solidness of the torso that pressed against his own.   
  
Her breathing came regular, more even than her rapid-fire pulse.  
  
A tiny rivulet of crimson beaded at the very edge of her mouth, her half-opened mouth, gasping with shock, no time to feel pain. No time to feel the wounds. No time to feel anything but the beating of her heart, her butterfly, butterfly heart. He reached a finger over, caressed the outline of the frozen, moist lips that trembled slightly as he wiped the droplet off. Even this blood was warm, a miniature, enclosed capsule of living, beating life.   
  
She uttered a half strangled moan as he lifted the blood to his own mouth, his own tongue, stained his mouth with red, she shook her head and gave a cry as tiny and wavering as an infant mouse, wobbling and pathetic. A plea for what? The taint was hers, the taint was his, and they'd share it together. Together for eternity. And now, now her body trembled, convulsed in agony that must have dulled from experience, eyes glazed over, frosted and shining like mirrors of bottle green glass.  
  
No comfort to be found for her at this moment. 


	2. Rose: Lonely One

The moon shone, a tiny silver sliver outside her window, casting an ethereal glow over the room. The campus outside the window was a nightscape of shades of black, lit here and there with the soft, golden glows of lamplights. Edges of treetops fringed the bottom of the sky in delicate, black lace.   
  
She remembered a night like this, remembered looking into a sky made of indigo velvet and diamonds sewn into the firmament, the sky that stretched out and down, laying peacefully across the rounded hilltops on a warm, July night. Remembered the golden heat of a fire, the fierce amber and vermilion sparks of a firecracker, the arc of a shooting star that traced a silky, powder white edge of diamond dust onto the sky.  
  
Mother and Father holding her hands, hands that engulfed her own tiny ones, swung her into warm arms and laughing faces, hands that caressed her hair and lips, warm lips to call her their darling and kiss her goodnight when it came time for her to be tucked in. Mother with her smooth fingers and warm eyes, her patient smile and gentle, gentle voice, hands that taught her to sew a button onto a tiny fabric bunny. Father and a pinwheel that spun the colors of the rainbow, reflecting each color as shards of light on her face and hands.

Laughter. Loving. Warmth.  
  
Mother. Father.  
  
And now she hated the night, the night that stole them away from her, left her alone and without them. Was there fire when they left? Was there fire on and around them, did they look up into the merciless, brilliant stars as she did? Look at them, as she did now, yes, because there was nowhere else to look? And then bury, bury them in shrouds of thick scented roses and polished mahogany. Covered in perfumed scraps of velveteen flower petals, lost and cold and aching, remembering the stars.

She'd closed her eyes and imagined the dirt piled thick around her, pressing in on each side and trapping her in that tiny space, that tiny garden of plucked flowers, next to her mother and father. Saved by a prince draped in flowing white, purest white as the stars in moon with warm eyes like her mother's…all she remembered, the words and his kind, kind eyes. His face as dark as the night sky, he was the night sky clothed in all the stars.  
  
How she hated the night.   
  
Sometimes…  
  
Sometimes she even hated the prince.


	3. Lilac: Lost Boy

Where are we?  
  
We're nowhere. This is where they put you to be forgotten. Or was it to forget?. Or maybe where you go to be forgotten...if you want to be forgotten.  
  
Or all the three at once.  
  
Look at the clocks. They have all stopped, their hands have been taken. Look at the clocks, they're painted with plain, blank white paint. The numerals are white, too. Can you see them?  
  
I bet you can't see them. But I can see them, and the door. I bet you can't see the door. Why, it's right over there, of course. No, you can't reach the door yet, my dear. You aren't real yet. But someday you may be.  
  
I'll never be real.  
  
I never was real.  
  
That's what They tell me.  
  
Oh, I want to know where I am again! The roses never tell me. The roses never show me where I am, they show me only places where the Others are. They lead me to them, lead me to the darkness in the heart, but never, ever, ever show me anything else. Nothing else but rain and grey. We are nowhere, they say, we are nowhere. Do you understand?  
  
No, of course you can't. But I did tell you where we were. Do you remember the time, do you remember the snow? The snow won't ever, ever leave from this garden, and neither will you. If it makes you feel better, neither will I.  
  
I, who am I? Who is me? Please, tell me who I am again? Please say my name and tell me things...I don't remember, I don't remember. Sometimes...sometimes, when you hold me, I do. Sometimes I remember flowers that weren't ever black. You tell me I have a sister. You tell me I am cruel. You tell me that I will live forever...  
  
I feel sick.  
  
Now, hush, they tell me. If you are quiet, We shall tell you a story.  
  
If you are quiet, We shall let you out.  
  
Hush, do you hear them? Do you hear the clocks? They're all winding back to the beginning again...  
  
You're not listening, are you? You never really listen to me, sempai. 


	4. Sepia: Mirror Eyes

She watches Her, but never touches Her. Never, ever, for fear of what she may do or say afterwards. Sometimes she thinks her face is a perfect mirror, reflecting exactly how and what she feels on the inside. Then she thinks of herself, a girl walking around with a pane of mirrored glass for a face, trying to cover it up. She fears what would happen if She knew, so she never, ever mentions anything that would lead her to believe...lead her to believe _anything_. There are times she would like to think that she is separate from the others, that she alone is worthy of the presence of Her. And then there are times when she thinks she couldn't possibly come near her, out of hatred, sullen, horrible, tearing hatred that rips from the inside and she covers with her smooth, smooth glass face.

How could She? How could She not know?

She has a porcelain doll, that she looks at sometimes, even though she is no longer the age for toys. The style is Western, the dress is ruffled blue and yellow, the hair is silky, curly and yellow, yellow, yellow. Gold hair. But the face is like hers, porcelain cold and expressionless as a doll's. Cold, beautiful doll face with staring glass eyes. Mirror eyes, that shine her own face back at her. The dolls face, she feels, is familiar to her. It is like the face she sees in the mirror, even with the curling yellow hair unlike her own.

Sometimes she is allowed to brush Her hair, and then she is careful not to tug or hurt. The hair sliding between her fingers feels like the dolls hair, silky and fine. So fine, Her hair curled and wound around her head like a halo, or a twisting mass of light gold snakes. Snakes like Medusa's hair, and she heard somewhere Medusa struck men to stone with her beauty, not really her ugliness. And that always made more sense to her. And then, when she paused too long, or stared too long, She would ask her _'Is there something wrong?'_

And she'd deliberate and mutter, but in the end she'd say no. Nothing was wrong. Her name meant courage, and that was the most ironic, horrible thing, since she never had any courage, not really. She had always been a follower, always latched herself on to those stronger, and changed her face to match what they wanted. Painted over the doll face to the colors of those she followed, but always kept her mirror eyes.

Now she sits with Her, eyes turned to Her face in adoration, as she listens. That's all she has to ever do to please Her, and she often wonders why. She only ever wanted to be listened to, to be complimented and yes, almost worshipped. This is what that girl was like. Even through the haze of admiration, even as she served and watched and cared, yes, she knew what She was really like. But even so...

"_Yuuko, is something wrong?"_

And she'd smile and shake her head. No, Nanami-sama. Nothing is wrong. But her eyes would always show something different.


	5. Coral: Parasite

When she was young, there had been small, fragile roses all around. Her mother had planted them, a series of delicate blooms of pastel that circled up and down and around the back of their patio, planted in tiny clay pots and wrapping their prickly vines tightly over and through white picket fencing. They were maybe small enough to fit into the palm of her four year old hand, little fairy flowers in tints of pink, baby yellow, and pearl. The patio had been a perfect place for tea parties, or any game to be played alone with one's imagination for company. Her older sister would sometimes sit next to her, drinking tea made of fruit juice, eating rice crackers broken in half and served on porcelain plates no bigger than the face of her father's watch.  
  
She would think that the flowers were all alive and thinking, maybe watching the girl with the bright orange pigtails as she sat in their midst and watched them sway gently in the wind. Flower dances. The flowers danced easy waltzes with their fringed and crisp green leaves, once or twice losing a petal in the process. This, of course, wouldn't hurt the flowers because the outer petals were like hair or clothes. She talked to them at times, but only when she was alone. She could imagine that they spoke back, in a way.  
  
Once or twice she caught herself peeking inside a flower, sifting through the layers of velvety petals to see the 'face' of the flower, a tiny, yellow thing fuzzy with seeds and pollen. She'd thought that the flower should have eyes.  
  
In the summer, she'd seen a tiny hole in the side of a pale pink flower, nearly perfectly round and beginning to brown around the edges. It looked like a small gunshot or a burn, drilling into the heart of the rose. It had frightened her enough that she backed away, eyes wide, as if she was expecting the flower to bleed or maybe scream, a tinny little sound hardly loud enough to hear. And of course it did no such thing.  
  
When she neared it, peeking through that hole, she was shocked and dismayed to discover that it went straight through the outer petals, leading slowly into the heart of the rose. Tiny ragged holes edged the petals around it. She'd pulled the ravaged petals back, carefully, layer by layer, watching the hole get larger with each petal pulled aside, until she reached the golden heart of the rose. There, nestled against the wall of petals like a baby carved out of precious stone, was a metallic green beetle. Its mandibles were firmly locked on a petal, its legs digging into soft pink and fuzzy yellow with a ferocious possessiveness.  
  
She'd sat there, staring at the intruder with a faint disgust mixed with fascination, at this moving ornament of a beetle that had chewed its way through to the heart of the flower. Why had the rose let it in? She poked the beetle with a tiny child's finger, watching it shift and then clamp on more tightly. Was it because it was so pretty? Did the flower try to waltz with the beetle as it had with the leaves? And as they danced, did the rose feel it when the beetle chewed and tore its way into the petals?  
  
She'd cried that day, showed the flower and beetle to her mother, who crunched the beetle beneath the heel of her shoe, spreading glittering bits of shell and green-yellow bug intestine on the white cement. Her mother told her it was a parasite, a word too big for her to understand at that age. Somehow she'd understood what it meant, though. The bug would stay in the rose, very slowly eating it away until there was nothing left but the naked center.  
  
Spray was brought out of the shed behind the vegetable garden, drizzled over the roses like an acid scented rain. Her mother told her it was perfume that the bugs didn't like, to keep them away from spoiling the flowers again. She told her not to cry any longer, that there wouldn't be any more of the beetles in the flowers. But after her mother left, she'd continued her quiet sobs. And it wasn't only the rose she'd been crying for, the poor rose being torn apart by its beautiful friend.  
  
She'd been crying for the beetle as well. The sad little beetle that lived to destroy what it loved. She couldn't bring herself to hate it for hurting that flower. 


	6. Cerulean: Flavors

Her favorite flavor is coffee.

She likes it deep and strong and rich, loving the sharp, bitter aftertaste that comes with it. She likes it in ice cream, in beverages, and yes, in her milkshakes. She dislikes sweetness in everything; sugar and cream are for children who have not yet developed sophistication in tastes.

She, of course, has a _very_ sophisticated taste. She wears lipstick and heels and black skirts, in her spare time of course. Clothes meant to be lingered over or torn off, depending on the preference of her chosen bedmate. It, of course, doesn't matter who. She only sees one face in bed, only feels the hands of one person while she lies entangled in limbs and sweaty sheets. And afterwards, she always asks for one small cup of black espresso, a habit that is questioned and commented over by everyone who has the distinct pleasure of her nightly company. She tells them she drinks it to maintain stamina, with a smile and a high, flirtatious giggle.

But she drinks it for its bitterness.

Now she lays on her side in the sweet, innocent twin bed in the dorm her and her brother share. She loathes the juvenile paintings and mosaics littering the room, a room for babies and children. She is no longer a child. Somehow she feels that she is tainting the innocence of this room, and revels in the feeling. Like a whore in Neverland.

Her brother comes out of the tiny kitchen, holding a tray. She watches him as he sets it down, absorbing the play of muscles in his arms, admiring the thin waist and the figure so much like her own. Watching a few butterfly wisps of hair fall into his eyes. He asks her if he'd like a milkshake, but he has made it the wrong flavor once more. Vanilla. Miki's flavor is vanilla, sugary and plain and childish. She despises it, because it reminds her of him. She loves it for the same reason.

"You know I can't have something that sweet." she says.

He shrugs, the faintest movement beneath the pale cotton pajama shirt he wears, and drinks down his cup of innocence. A few hours after he has fallen asleep, lying sprawled on his back amidst a sea of lamb-patterned sheets, she rises from her own bed and goes to kneel by his side. His hair lies in a wild fall of flyaway blue. His lips are faintly parted, and she traces those with one finger. Then she bends over him, brushes her lips against his.

They taste of vanilla.


	7. Maroon: Unsatisfied

You could ask her why she does it. If you were curious enough, enraged enough, bored enough to seek her out and demand an explanation, you could ask her why she is so eager to rip apart all she knows just for the chance to be 'even'. She wouldn't tell you, she doesn't know herself. She could explain it in words, could tell you about her life before the shining model of all that is beautiful and sleek and magazine-cover perfect appeared in her life and miraculously became her best friend. She could describe in detail how she would walk quietly as a shadow, how she would laugh behind her hand and shrink back when she was looked at, how she would stutter when she was called on in class and how the others would giggle at her when the words wouldn't come. She could explain that while being friends with a goddess was novel, it wasn't comfortable and it always made one feel younger and smaller and slower and more awkward and altogether more pathetic than they ever felt in an empty classroom during lunch break, eating a bento alone because they didn't want anyone to know that no one would sit with them willingly.

And then she could tell you about a moment where everything changes, where the tiny ball of compressed self-hatred and jealousy and anger and depression explodes, or implodes, or even both, with the resounding sound of an epiphany: the realization that this beautiful, wonderful best friend is the person you hate the most in the whole world

_besides yourself_

and she would say that there was the moment where everything was one giant turning point, one enormous, many path-ed crossroad, only every way eventually led straight down and she only knew that now. She wanted him, she'd tell you as earnestly as someone could while laughing and crying at the same time, she'd wanted him for only her, and for only her purpose and goals. She'd wanted him, and the other one too, suave and mysterious, and, yes, someone Juri knew and was therefore all the more attractive. And yes, she wanted, she wanted to hurt _her_ so bad. It wasn't, she'd explain, that she was a bad girl, she wasn't hateful, she wasn't cruel. No, it wasn't her fault.

It was just that she was a weed and her friend was a rose, a stupid, gorgeous, hateful rose, and sometimes, roses needed to be

_trimmed_

put down level with the other flowers, because it wasn't fair for them to be any different or any more special than anyone else, but once they were down there, it would all be better, right? Right?

By this point she would be trembling, fragile arms shaking with some emotion between mirth and grief and maybe even a little triumph added to the mix. _After all,_ she'd say, _roses and weeds are fertilized with the same shit . _And maybe she'd laugh that high-pitched, girly little laugh before she'd wrap her arms around herself like she was her own lover and sigh in a way that would make you think of winds in dead trees. _Miracles, _she'd sigh to you, _believe in miracles, and do you know why? That's what it takes for them to notice you down here. I don't believe in them. Not any more._

You wouldn't be satisfied with the answer, but then again, neither is she. And that, at least, is some consolation.


End file.
